


Let the Words Fall Down

by Bus_Kids_Burgade (Inthemorninglight)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Bus Kids - Freeform, Daisy gets taken care of, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, One-Shots, PTSD Jemma, drunk bus kids, not necessarily related, there's just a lot of friendship and love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:16:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8174653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inthemorninglight/pseuds/Bus_Kids_Burgade
Summary: Series of bus kids friendship one-shots + things you said prompts. Summaries by chapter.





	1. Things You Said at 1 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two times Daisy says she loves them

“Wait, wait,” Fitz gasps, sputtering vodka tonic and flailing blindly to his right for Simmons’s shoulder. “I’ve… I’ve got one….” He’s already wheezing with laughter before he can get the words out and Simmons is crying with mirth into her third science experiment of a mixed drink. “Six - sixteen sodium atoms walk into a bar…. Followed by Batman!”

 

Simmons actually shrieks with laughter, slumping forward and sloshing suspiciously blue liquid onto the coffee table. 

 

“Shhh!” Skye hisses through a grin, diving forward to clap a hand over her mouth.

 

“Get it Skye? I said - Batman,” Fitz chokes through his own delighted laughter.

 

“You’re hilarious -” (She doesn’t actually get it, but for some reason she can’t stop laughing anyway. She blames the strawberry daiquiris.) “- but guys if we wake May up,  _ we’re  _ going to wake up on a raft in the south pacific.”

 

Fitz, gulping down another mouthful of his drink waves an unconcerned hand. “S’alright. Simmons almost died last week. We’ve still got a couple days before that wares off.” 

 

He’s going for brazen, but there’s a crack in his voice that doesn’t quite get him there. Skye feels the same twinge at the reminder and goes for the last of her daiquiri. Simmons, apparently unfazed, keeps licking the palm Skye still has pressed over her mouth with an impish light in her eyes. 

 

“I grew up in an orphanage, babe. Spit doesn’t bug me.”    

 

“I’ve got one!” Simmons announces, finally pushing Skye’s hand out of the way. “What’s the difference between a chemist and a plumber?” 

 

“That one only works if you’re reading it,” Fitz reminds.

 

Simmons scrunches up her nose. “Oh, right.” 

 

Then they both dissolve into mad giggles. 

 

The scrape of a bunk door sliding open comes from down the hall and a moment later, Ward walks past them to fill his water bottle at the sink very pointedly. All three of them silence their laughter at once, Simmons pressing her both hands over her mouth to contain the sound. 

 

“You guys are so bad at this!” Skye complains the moment Ward’s bunk door creaks closed again. “It’s like you’ve never stolen liquor before in your lives. ” And then: “Oh my god, you’ve never stolen liquor before in your lives, have you?”

 

“Skye,” Fitz blusters as Simmons objects that “it’s hardly stealing.” 

 

“We’re twenty-four -”

 

“- And it’s a communal bar.” 

 

She can’t help the wide, warm grin that creeps over her face then, with the two of them blinking at her indignantly. The warmth of the alcohol in her veins, and of them, crowded a little closer around her than even they normally crowd, has made her heady. 

 

This - this camaraderie is so strange and different from anything she’s experienced before.  It’s not the hard bonds forged of rough circumstance she had at St. Agnes or in other foster homes. It’s not the quiet presence of other hackers blinking on her computer screen, leading mysterious lives in mysterious places thousands of miles away. And it’s not like Miles or the handful of other real-person friends she’d collected before, the kind who lived fast and bright and a little too desperately. 

 

This is something else, and the words, loosened by booze and lack of sleep and probably several recent instances of mortal peril, slip out of her mouth before she can catch them.

 

“I love you guys, you know.” 

 

And to her surprise, the admission doesn’t make her shrivel with embarrassment or earn awkward laughter. Instead, Simmons beams and scoots around the coffee table to grab Skye up in a sloppy hug, and Fitz grins and punches her knee lightly. 

 

“Yeah, you’re alright.”

 

“And very pretty,” Simmons adds, patting the top of her head. 

 

Skye drops her head on Simmons’s shoulder, prods Fitz to let her finish off the rest of his vodka tonic. 

 

It’s a good feeling, she decides. Maybe even her favorite.

 

-*-*-

 

It’s not as dark as it should be when she wakes up. There’s a low, fluorescent glow, the echoey shuffling and murmuring of distant people that she suspects never truly ceases. Something smells sharply of antiseptic. 

 

There’s a dull ache pulsing throughout her entire body - but that’s nothing new. The thing that gets her attention is that it’s a lot duller than it should be. She moves to put a hand to her wrist, the right one which always hurts the worst, but she feels something tug at the crook of her left arm, and, looking down, sees the IV taped to her skin. 

 

A hand lands gently on her arm to still the motion, familiar, calloused from intense sketching and hours of building and tearing things apart. Fitz is a foot away from her, leaning forward from a chair dragged close to her bedside and looking distinctly rumpled. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, though, when he sees her eyes open. 

 

“You’re gonna be alright,” he promises and the sound of his brogue almost makes her cry. “Lot of broken bones - your right tibia almost shattered completely - but Jemma’s patched you up. Got you on a real whopper of a painkiller cocktail.” 

 

“Jemma,” she repeats, the name fitting on her lips like a key in a lock, and she’s afraid what it’s going to spill out. “Fitz -” 

 

But he’s shaking his head, a hand going to her hair. “Don’t worry about anything right now, okay? You’re going to be fine.” 

 

She shouldn’t - her bones are brittle and she doesn’t deserve it after everything and it’s just going to make things so much harder when she has to leave again - but she tugs feebly at his sleeve, starved after so many months for comfort. He understands at once, sliding out of his chair and easing onto the edge of the bed next to her, an arm looping around her. 

 

She feels his chin rest on the top of her head, and lets her eyes drift closed.

 

“Daisy!”

 

The soft british lilt has her alet at once, trying to sit forward. 

 

“Lie still,” Simmons orders, stern and solicitous all in one breath. “How are you feeling?” she asks, pulling out a pen light to peer into Daisy’s eyes, skimming charts and monitors with a flurry of activity that almost makes Daisy woozy until Fitz puts out a hand to touch Simmons’s elbow and she slows. 

 

Something passes between them in the dark that Daisy doesn’t catch, but the next moment, Jemma’s shrugging out of her lab coat and sliding in on her other side. 

 

“We missed you, Daisy,” she whispers, resting a hand lightly over Daisy’s middle, where there are no broken bones to disturb. 

 

There’s a sob choked in her throat, but she swallows it down hard. 

 

“I love you guys, you know,” she says, (and no one says anything about the way her voice seems to have shattered, too). 

 

This feeling, she realizes, their warmth on either side of her, this feeling is home. 


	2. Things You Said in the Grass and Under the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma faces the stars for the first time since returning from Maveth

The problem is that it’s November when they finally get Simmons back. 

Daisy has seen her haunting the dusty, uppermost rooms of the Playground, drawn to the windows as if they sing her siren’s song, as if she could never drink in the outside long enough. But it’s cold and bleak now, leaves ground into a dull, decaying blanket, grass stiff and muddy. A dingy, cement-and-brick basement is not a great trade-off for someone who’s just spent six months living in a cave, and yet, there is not really anywhere else to go. 

Fitz grows more anxious by the day, watching as the cobwebs don’t clear from her face, as her colors stay faded. He can feel the warmth of her hand in his, but it still feels like he cannot reach her. 

Daisy thought she was dead, had mourned her, boxed up her things and sobbed every night into one of her old sweaters. And now she’s here, but she’s walking the halls with fear in her eyes and skin so pale it is almost translucent. It feels like they are living with her ghost, and Daisy hates it. 

“We have to do something,” Fitz says one night as they both pretend to watch some dumb cartoon. 

It’s only seven-thirty, but Jemma’s asleep, still struggling with the after-effects of severe vitamin D deficiency and a massively fucked-up circadian rhythm. 

“I know,” Daisy says. 

The next day, they talk to May.

Daisy figured it would be a longshot. It’ll cost a lot in jet fuel and time that could be spent tracking Inhumans, but May agrees with minimal pleading. 

She flies them somewhere warm. Not tropical. Nothing with sand or water. The closest place they can find with soft grass and flowers and a gentle breeze. 

Jemma lets herself be led onto the plain as she’s allowed herself to be led most places lately, but as they prepare to disembark, she freezes. Fitz stops short as if they’re connected by some invisible bungee cord that keeps him within inches of her side. He’s searching her face for clues as to what’s wrong, but Daisy already knows. 

She knows exactly how frightening the things you crave can be, so she reaches out and slips her hand into the one Fitz is not already clutching. 

“Close your eyes,” she advises. “It’ll be less overwhelming.” 

Jemma swallows hard and ducks her head. Daisy takes a step closer. 

“We’re here. If you don’t like it, we’ll get you out. It’s okay.” 

Jemma’s eyes dart questioningly from her face to Fitz’s, and he nods emphatically in agreement. And so, eyes closed and trusting them to lead her, Jemma Simmons steps back into the world. 

The scent hits her first, and it hits her hard. She can smell grass. And earth. The kind of rich, dark earth still damp from rain. The kind of earth that gives life. She can smell something heady and floral, and beneath that the cloying sweetness of decaying wood. She fills her lungs again and again, trying to soak up all of it, trying to breathe the whole world in. 

In the distance there are birds and crickets and the hum of insects. The sound of leaves rustling against each other in a calming murmur. 

“Here,” Daisy says, squeezing Jemma’s hand before dropping it to stoop and tug at her shoelaces. Understanding her goal, Jemma slips out of her sneakers and steadies herself on Fitz’s shoulder as she peels off her socks. 

The grass is cool and damp against the soles of her feet and the feeling crashes up through her spine and brings her eyes shooting open. All at once she takes in the greens of the meadow they’re standing in, the shadows of the trees swaying in the distance, the violets and pinks and golds of the sunset leaching color from the world. It swallows her like a wave. 

She drops Fitz’s hand and her knees buckle, fingers curling into the grass. It’s exactly like she remembers, like she’d dreamed of a thousand times when all she could do was subsist to dream a little longer. Soft. Sweet. She wants to pull it up like a quilt and burrow in. 

“Jemma?” 

Fitz is kneeling beside her and it’s only when he runs his thumb over her cheek that she notices the tears pouring down her face. 

“It’s just… been a long time,” she chokes out. “I was afraid it wouldn’t be the same.” 

She smiles to let them know she’s alright, and they exchange a look over her head and step back to give her a moment alone with the grass and the earth and the fading sunlight.

They spread a blanket out on the grass and huddle together under another one as the night chill starts to roll in. They roast marshmallows over a lighter Daisy whips out of nowhere and pass around a huge thermos of apple cider. Fitz and Daisy do all the talking, and Jemma lets the sound of their voices roll over her, losing grip of the words and living in the dip and swell of their familiar choir. 

Eventually they end up in a heap, staring up at the night sky that’s closed over their heads. She’s propped against Fitz’s chest, perpendicular to him with his arm resting across her collarbone in a loose embrace, and Daisy is using Jemma’s stomach as a pillow, her warm weight a comforting anchor. They’re still talking, about some new video game Mack got for the xbox she thinks. The sky is drowning out their voices. 

It is so big and blue and specked with stars. Jemma can feel panic at the edges of her mind as the relentless enormity of another star-strewn cosmos sucks at her thoughts, and she tries to find the familiar constellations to remind herself this is not that sky. 

“Doing okay, Simmons?” Daisy asks as though from a long way away. She feels a gentle hand on her knee and takes a deep breath to steady her breathing.

“D’you want to get back on the plane?” Fitz asks anxiously, lifting his head to try to see her face. 

Jemma shakes her head, licks her lips, takes another deep breath. 

“I’ve just… spent a lot of time under the stars,” she murmurs. 

“Shit, I didn’t even think about that,” Daisy says, sitting up and twisting to look at her. “I’m so sorry, Jemma -”

“We can go,” Fitz says, stirring beneath her as he tries to sit up. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” Jemma hastens to assure them. 

She hadn’t been prepared to face this, but now that she’s here, she wants to try. The stars have always meant a great deal to her, and she does not want to let that planet strip her of that, too. 

“I - I lived outside for the first couple months,” she says and her voice only shakes a little. She has not spoken to anyone about the sensory details of that time. Dr. Garner keeps trying to get her to try during their sessions, a kind of exposure therapy that is supposed to help her cope with flashbacks and nightmares. 

Daisy wraps an arm around around Jemma’s knees and rests her head against them, listening. Fitz’s fingers rub soothing circles into her shoulder, and she focuses on these things as she keeps going, trying to keep the memories firmly in the past as she examines them. 

“There wasn’t much else to do but stare at the stars, and there was something exciting about seeing completely uncharted constellations and celestial bodies. Not everyone gets to discover entirely new planets these days,” her voice is barely a whisper, but she pushes on. 

“I got to name all the constellations myself, so I named them after you. There was one that looked like a warrior kicking at the one of the moons, so I called it May.” She lifts a hand and traces the memory of the image in the air above her. “Bobbi was in the shape of a bird. There wasn’t really a concept of ‘North’ but there was an incredibly bright star I followed when I was looking for water, and I called it Coulson.” 

The feeling of being buried under a wave of sand, the gritty taste in her mouth, the ache that reverberated in every muscle as she dragged herself over yet another dune only to see more sand beyond - the memories choke her momentarily and she takes a moment to ride them out and push them back down. 

“Did you have one for me?” Daisy asks, hugging Jemma’s knees perhaps to help her return to the moment. 

A smile tugs at Jemma’s lips. “There was one that looked like a hand stretched out, and a galaxy swirling just beyond it. That was Skye. And there was one that looked exactly like a gibbon, so I called it Leopold.” 

Although she can’t see Fitz’s face, she thinks she can feel his grin in the darkness. 

“So there’s a whole galaxy named after me floating around out there,” Daisy says with a hint of wonder, resuming her place pillowed against Jemma’s stomach so she can see the stars again.

“It’s funny,” Jemma whispers, throat closing for entirely different reason this time. “I spent so much time wishing I’d open my eyes and see Orion’s belt and the big dipper and Polaris, and now…” she traces Cassiopeia above her head as a few new tears slip down her cheeks. “I miss your constellations. Whenever I looked up at them it was kind of like having you with me.”

Fitz’s arm tightens around her. “Well, now you really have us,” he reminds her a bit thickly. 

And she does. The feeling hasn’t really, truly sunk in until now, but she can feel them anchoring her, rooting her to the earth, keeping that vast, terrifying universe from sucking her up again into its depths. For the first time since she’s returned, she feels entirely safe.


	3. Things You Said at the Kitchen Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy helps Fitz and Simmons move into their new apartment and contemplates the nature of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background FS

“It looks good,” Daisy says, trailing her eyes across the freshly-painted walls, the cheerful curtains, the gleaming pots and pans hung in the kitchen and the brightly-colored rug spread out in front of the television. 

She imagines what it would feel like to sprawl across that rug, lie in the sun streaming in through the high windows for hours. What pancakes made in those shiny frying pans would taste like. 

Stop, she orders herself sternly. She’s not living in a van anymore. She’s got her old bunk back at the Playground. She’s got the familiar kitchen and the lounge. It’s the closest thing to a home she’s really known (outside the Bus). And she should be glad to be back there. She’s almost back to being on good terms with Mack and May and Coulson. 

It’s going to stop feeling awkward soon. 

But then she thinks of Fitzsimmons eating at this table every night instead of feasting on takeout around the xbox. She thinks of how far away they’ll seem tonight when she’s lying in her old bed. She won’t be able to knock on Fitz’s door if the darkness gets too big. She won’t be able to loiter on the end of Jemma’s bed with the excuse of borrowing lotion or a hair tie until the loneliness in her chest burns away. 

She’s finally home and they won’t be there.

Jemma’s hand brushes her shoulder as she passes behind Daisy’s chair to sit down on her other side, setting a mug of coffee down in front of her and a teacup in front of Fitz.

“It really is perfect, isn’t it?” she sighs, looking around the bright room as though she’ll never get tired of taking it in. 

“Yeah, if this whole SHIELD/superhero thing doesn’t work out, you should seriously think about getting into real estate,” Fitz says, taking a sip of his tea and wincing when it burns his mouth. 

He never fails to scald his tongue on his tea. Daisy knows this because, discounting the last seven months, she’s had breakfast with him almost every morning for years. How bizarre will it be to have only Mack to share the table with tomorrow?

“Now that we have your bloodstains off the walls, it really is quite charming,” Simmons chips in. 

The smile she flashes at Daisy tries to match her old one, but at the last moment it flickers and her eyes flutter away. Daisy once again feels the way their dynamic hangs awkwardly around them now, not quite fitting as it should. She tries not to worry that it’ll never fit again. 

“Oh, I was gonna show you,” Fitz says, setting his tea cup down with a clink and jumping out of his chair. “I think you’ll appreciate this.”

He disappears into one of the bedrooms, returning in seconds with a high-tech piece of gadgetry which he deposits beside Daisy’s mug with a proud grin. “State-of-the-art security system. Supposedly unhackable - although it hasn’t been Daisy-Johnson-tested yet.”

Daisy gives a low whistle, turning over the circuitry in her hands. 

“Biometric recognition software, neurotoxin gas release triggered by forced entry - SImmons’s contribution - no one’s getting the jump on us in here.” 

“Glad to see you’ve escaped the SHIELD paranoia syndrome,” Daisy comments, gingerly laying the thing down. 

“Yes, well, when one gets used to sleeping in an unmapped, heavily armed base protected by a small army of patrolling security guards, ordinary walls and doors feel a bit flimsy,” Simmons points out. 

“Touche.” 

The conversation lapses. Daisy alternates between sipping her coffee in an attempt to push off the moment of departure and gulping it down to get the hell out of there. She’s already been here too long. Jemma won’t sleep unless all her books are in alphabetical order and her clothes properly hanging in a closet and all the dishes organized by color and size. Trying to ensure they get some sleep tonight, Daisy stayed after everyone else had returned to the base to help them settle in. But now it’s really time for her to go, and if she hasn’t already felt her welcome waring thin, the intense conversation the other two are having in glances drives home the point. 

They were the angriest at her leaving and the first to forgive her upon her return, but, like with everyone else, the raw edges and cold gaps haven’t entirely resealed themselves yet. She swallows the rest of her coffee in one great gulp and stands abruptly. 

“Thanks for dinner, and, uh, the coffee. Coulson wants me back for something though, so I should…” 

She trails off, backing toward the door where her jacket and boots lie in a heap. 

“Oh,” they say with such synchronized tone and expressions it’s almost comical. 

Simmons bites her lip and looks at Fitz, who nudges her and widens his eyes pointedly. 

“Wait!” Jemma blurts out, dropping her cup and scrambling out of her seat. 

Daisy freezes instinctively. Jemma’s fingers close around her forearm and pull her back toward the table. 

“Before you go, we - erm - we wanted to -”

“It’s just that we were talking last night - “ Fitz cuts in. 

“And we thought… maybe….” 

“There’s two bedrooms.” 

“And the bathroom is quite spacious.” 

“And you did put down a deposit and first and last month’s rent.” 

They look at her, a mix of imploring and nervous, and her heart’s beating fast but she ignores it, trying not to think they’re saying what she thinks they’re saying. 

Apparently understanding that she needs it spelled out, Simmons clears her throat and says more calmly, “Daisy, we were wondering if you might like to move in. Be our roommate.” 

“For a while,” Fitz adds. “Or longer, if you like. We just thought -”

“We missed you,” Jemma says, so softly it almost hurts. 

Daisy swallows. The yeses are already filling up her mouth, but she bites them down. She can’t. That’s not how this works. She can’t be that awkward third wheel living in their guest bedroom. 

“Look,” Fitz says as though he knows what she’s thinking. “This place is just as much yours as ours. You picked it out. You put money into it. If you wanna get out of that basement and stop sharing a kitchen with, like, fifty people… well, we’d be happy to have you.” 

And the thing is, she’s never been a third wheel. They were a pair long before she ever met them, long before they started dating. And somehow she fit, not in the way, not left out. Somehow she’s always fit with them. 

“Well, if you want me here that bad -” she starts, unable to keep the smile off her face, and Simmons shrieks and launches herself at Daisy before she can finish her sentence. Fitz even steps forward to add his warmth to the embrace. 

She’s always thought it, known it really. Her first home wasn’t really the bus, it was these two, and this, more than anything, makes her homecoming feel real.


	4. Things You Said While We Were Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma and Skye wait for Fitz to wake up from his coma

The steady pulse of the monitors is a lullaby. When Skye slides in through the door to the hospital room, she’s relieved to see that Jemma’s finally fallen asleep, curled like a cat in the chair she’s pulled right up against the mattress beside Fitz’s head.

 

May, seated in a chair on the other side of the bed, keeps her eyes trained on the steady rise and fall of his chest, but when she notices Skye hovering just inside the door, she stands and crossed silently to her.

 

“How long’s she been out?” Skye whispers.

 

“About a half hour,” May murmurs back. “Did you get something to eat?”

 

Skye nods and holds up the steaming cup of noodles she brought for Simmons. May nods in approval.

 

“I need to find Coulson,” she says. “Call if you need anything.”

 

She casts Fitzsimmons one more glance, tinged with softness and worry that Skye only picks up on because she’s spent so long studying May’s expressions, and heads out of the room. She squeezes Skye’s arm briefly in passing.

 

Skye stays by the door for a moment because it’s easier to look at Fitz from a distance. Like every other time she’s walked into this room in the past four days, her chest squeezes painfully at the sight and for a moment she can’t breathe. He’s always been pale, but he looks gaunt in that bed, hooked up to tubes and wires. His curly hair is matted to his forehead and his hands, which she’s so used to seeing flying in rapid gesticulations as he talks a mile a minute or fiddling incessantly with whatever’s near him, are limp at his sides.

 

Skye’s known a lot of heartbreak in her life, but this, this hollow, sucking pit in her stomach, this cold place where someone warm and familiar and good is slipping away, and not because they want to… this is new and it is terrible.  

 

She shakes herself, forces her thoughts away from there. He’s going to be okay. He will. She sets the cup of noodles down on a table and pulls one of the thin, hospital-issue blankets off a shelf for Jemma. She tries to move quietly, but Simmons stirs as she’s draping the blanket over her.

 

“Just me, go back to sleep,” Skye whispers, but Jemma’s already sitting up, eyes darting to the monitors, to Fitz’s face.

 

She reaches out to feel his pulse for herself, lays a palm lightly on his chest to feel his respirations.

 

“Nothing’s happened in the thirty seconds you’ve been asleep,” Skye assures her.

 

Jemma takes a deep breath and pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

 

“I brought food.” Skye reaches behind her for the noodles. Jemma takes them, but doesn’t eat.

 

It’s like watching both of them slip away. Skye could never have imagined that sunny, over-eager, bright-eyed scientist she’d met months ago sitting so still, so quiet, so grim-faced. And she has nothing really to say. They’ve all reassured her - and each other - a thousand times that he’ll be okay, that he’ll pull through. It is no more certain or comforting than it was four days ago.

 

“Is this what it was like when I was shot?” Skye asks. She doesn’t really mean to say it out loud, but she’s so desperate for a distraction it comes before she can stop it.

 

And it works. At least, Jemma takes her eyes off the monitors to look at her.

 

“Yes,” she says after a moment’s contemplation. “And no. I could do something when it was you. Even if it was just beating your heart and giving you drugs. This….” Her eyes wander back to the monitors. “This is so passive. I feel like I’m just letting him -”

 

She cuts herself off sharply, curling even tighter inward.

 

“Simmons, you’re the only reason he has this shot,” Skye reminds her, leaning forward to rub a hand up and down her back. “You dragged his ass up from the bottom of the ocean. You did _so much_.”

 

Jemma’s shaking her head. A few stray tears glitter at her lashes.

 

“Not _enough_ ,” she says bitterly.

 

“Jemma,” Skye forces her to meet her gaze. “You did everything you could.”

 

“You weren’t there -”

 

“I don’t need to be there to know. You jumped out of a plane. You threw yourself on a grenade. You would do literally anything to protect the people you care about.”

 

“And look how those things turned out?” Jemma demands, fingers curling around the arms of her chair until they're bloodless. “If I’d stayed put for five minutes no one need’ve jumped out of a plane at all. If I hadn’t leapt on that stupid grenade, we’d all’ve been knocked out and you wouldn’t have been shot.”

 

“You’re not psychic, Jemma!” Skye bursts out. It’s like arguing with a brick wall. For all Jemma loves logic, she apparently has no trouble ditching it when it comes to this. “You made the best decisions you could with the information you had. None of those things were your fault, and this isn’t your fault, and I will tell you that fifty times a day until it gets through your thick skull.”

 

Jemma’s eyes drift back to the monitors and the conversation breaks. Skye is consumed with the frustrating sense that her words have gone unheard.

 

“I can’t imagine my life without him,” Jemma whispers after a long silence. “I’ve never been on my own. Not really. I had my parents… and then I had him. He’s my family. He’s all I’ve got here.”

 

She takes a deep, trembling breath.

 

“Not _all_ you’ve got,” Skye says quietly. She leans on her knees and takes one of Fitz’s hands. His fingers are warm despite his pallor and it eases some of the anxious knot inside her. “I mean, you’ve got me. I know… we haven’t known each other as long, but….”

 

She trails off because her voice is getting raspy, and it was probably a mistake to insinuate that they might be family. She’s always jumping the gun, so desperate for connection she gets attached to anyone who sits next to her for more than five minutes. She forgets, sometimes, that the rest of them have real families and friends they’ve spent years building relationships with. A few months probably doesn’t mean the same to them as it does to her.

 

But when she dares to glance to her left, Simmons is looking at her oddly. It’s a soft sort of oddness, though, kind of like she’s thinking of something she’d forgotten.

 

“I can’t imagine my life without you, either,” she says and scoots her chair close enough to rest her head on Skye’s shoulder, sluffs some of her blanket across Skye’s lap.

 

“He’s gonna wake up,” Skye says for the thousand-and-first time, and she raises her voice a little. “You hear that, Fitz? You’re going to wake up. And if you don’t, I’ll kick your ass. I can do that now, I’m a specialist.”

  
Jemma’s icy fingers find her free hand under the blanket, and Skye squeezes them tight and together they keep waiting.


	5. Things You Said While Holding my Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy teaches Fitz to ice skate and meddles in his personal life. Set during the season 3 winter hiatus.

“I don’t like this,” Fitz whines. 

 

His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s holding onto the railing as though he never intends to let it go. 

 

“Come on,” Daisy prods, impatient beside him. “You’re gonna have to do it one way or the other.” 

 

“See, technically, if Coulson just gave me another week and some vibranium -”

 

“We are not building a robot to do your job, now come  _ on _ .” 

 

She gives his elbow a yank and Fitz, grimacing, opens his eyes and steps onto the ice. 

 

“See? it’s not so bad,” Daisy says encouragingly, gliding back and forth in front of him. 

 

“It’s ridiculous is what it is,” he grumbles, arms windmilling as he attempts to propel himself forward. “Why can’t you or Bobbi do this?”

 

“Because we didn’t build the equipment and we don’t know how to use it,” she reminds him. “And it’s not like you have to win the gold, Kristi Yamaguchi. You just have to stay on your feet long enough to figure out where the leak is.” 

 

“I dunno who that is.” 

 

He manages to slide forward a little ways, but the motion works a little too well and he over-balances. Daisy grabs for his arm, but it’s only Jemma’s sudden appearance at his other elbow that keeps him from landing flat on his arse. 

 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, glancing at her. 

 

She smiles, giving him his arm back, and it’s awkward for a moment as she hovers beside them and he avoids looking at her, but then she sails ahead of them with a few elegant strides. 

 

“So you two are still being weird,” Daisy says conversationally, skating a circle around him. 

 

“It’s not weird.”    
  


“It’s weird.” 

 

“Look, are you going to teach me or not?” 

 

Daisy rolls her eyes. “Okay, here, bend your knees a little - no, like this. And you’ve got to shift your weight - see?” 

 

She demonstrates a few slow, gliding steps. Fitz imitates her, somewhat clumsy but at least he’s still on his feet. 

 

Daisy whistles. “What’d I tell ya? Piece of cake.” 

 

Right on cue his legs go out from under him and he star fishes on the ice. She laughs so hard she almost joins him. 

 

“Thanks,” Fitz grumbles, pushing himself painfully to his knees. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Daisy grins. She doesn’t look sorry at all, but she offers him a gloved hand and pulls him up. “Here.” She takes his other hand, and, glancing over her shoulder, starts to skate backwards, towing him along. 

 

Watching her skates, he starts to pick up on the physics of the motion and after a few feet is moving forward with some of his own momentum. 

 

“She just needs some space,” he blurts out as they negotiate the curve of the rink. 

 

“Did Jemma tell you that, or are you assuming?” Daisy adjusts her grip to his forearms so he can lean more of his weight against her and keep his balance. 

 

He glances over to where Jemma is weaving in sloppy figure-eights across the rink, the new red coat Bobbi got her for Christmas making her easy to spot in the crowd. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious. I did set her boyfriend on fire.”

 

Daisy tightens her grip sympathetically. “Simmons is the last person on the planet who would hold that against you. You do know that, right?” 

 

He grimaces because he does know that and it kind of makes the whole thing worse. “Still, it’s not like she wants to look at my face any more than she has to right now.” 

 

“She came with us, didn’t she?” Daisy points out and when Fitz only shrugs huffs out an exasperated breath. “She’s dealing with a lot of crappy things right now, but I promise your face is not one of them.” 

 

“You’re too kind.” 

 

“Listen, the last thing she wants right now is space. She’s had enough of it to last a lifetime. So be nice to her.” 

 

“I am nice,” Fitz objets. 

 

“I don’t mean like you’re work friends, I mean like you’re actual friends. Best friends, even.” 

 

“You’re here to give me skating lessons, not meddle in my personal life.”

 

“I am your personal life. And seriously, how did you grow up in Scotland and never learn how to ice skate? I was a foster kid in southern California and I’m a better skater than you. What’s up with that?” 

 

“I was a little busy building  _ rockets _ ,” he says indignantly. 

 

“Pfft, excuses.” 

 

After three arduous laps of the rink and more collisions with ice than he cares to keep track of, Fitz is managing to both skate on his own and stay upright for more than two minutes, so Daisy declares that a celebratory hot chocolate is in order. While she shoots off to collect Jemma, Fitz pulls off his skates and wanders over to the concession stand to buy three huge cups with extra whipped cream. 

 

By the time he gets through the line, they’ve already staked out a table. 

 

“Who would’ve guessed Jemma-I-failed-my-field-assessment-three-times-Simmons is a regular Nancy Kerrigan,” he hears Daisy saying as he approaches.

 

“Hardly,” Jemma snorts, rubbing her mittened hands together. 

 

“Aha, but you know who that is,” Daisy says triumphantly.   

 

Jemma rolls her eyes and accepts the hot chocolate Fitz passes her as he joins them. He’s about to take the seat next to Daisy but she pointedly props her boots up on it, so he slides in next to Jemma. He waits for them to continue their conversation, blowing on his steaming chocolate, but Daisy just gulps her own cocoa and watches them over the small mountain of whipped cream.

 

“Daisy says you’re getting the hang of it,” Jemma says after a minute, a strange shyness that has never been between them softening her words. 

 

“I dunno about  _ that _ ,” he mumbles, wiping chocolate syrup off the tip of his nose. 

 

Jemma takes a tentative sip of her drink and it makes him think of the last time they had hot chocolate together, a million and a half years ago in their sci-ops apartment. He misses it, suddenly, the shoddy little flat and their rusted kettle, but especially the simplicity of knowing exactly how to be around each other. 

 

“Hey, you know, I’d be learning a lot quicker if you weren’t sticking me with this hack,” he says, turning fully to face Jemma and pointing a thumb in Daisy’s direction. 

 

Daisy flicks a sugar packet at his face. “Ungrateful.”

 

Jemma grins. “I suppose I could give you a few pointers. If you want.” 

 

He grins back. “Well seeing as you’re apparently a master figure skater -”

 

“Fitz -”

 

“Seriously where did this come from?”

 

“She’s been lulling us into a false sense of security. Probably a long-con to hustle us.”

 

“ _ Daisy _ -”

 

“Did you get bitten by a radioactive penguin?” 

 

“Or develop a new super soldier serum with weirdly specific enhancement capabilities?”

  
“Oh my god.” 


	6. Things You Said in a Hotel Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (s4 hiatus) The first night they share a room since Daisy's return she realizes Jemma is not as okay as she would have the rest of them believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to agentcalliope for the beta!!!

“Really?” Daisy asks, rolling her eyes to the heavens when they stumble exhaustedly into their cheap motel room and find only one bed shoved into a corner against the mirrored closet doors. 

 

“We could call the front desk…” Jemma suggests half-heartedly. 

 

It’s past midnight, though, and if any of the ten seedy rooms in this place is a double they’re all silently hoping Mack, Coulson, and Mace drew the lucky roomkey. 

 

Daisy drops her bag on the ground by the foot of the bed with a resigned sigh. “Hello floor, old buddy, old pal.” 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Fitz scoffs, dropping his own bag next to hers. “You’re still healing. You and Jemma can have the bed.” 

 

An argument follows, consisting mostly of the two of them playing tug-of-war over the extra sheets, and Jemma trying to convince them both there’s plenty of room for all three of them on the bed. (There really isn’t.) 

 

In the end, though, Fitz wins. Only because Daisy flexes her wrist wrong and winces and the other two pounce on the sign of weakness. 

 

None of them bother  changing. Daisy does a hasty scrub job so her mascara doesn’t end up all over the pillow, then eases herself onto the mattress, trying to leave as much space between her and Jemma as possible. 

 

Of course they’ve shared many beds many times: on missions that went long, when they fell asleep watching a movie or got too drunk to stumble back to their own bunks or just when the night was too big to be alone. They both know Jemma hogs the covers and Daisy always ends up a little sideways, that Jemma likes sleeping by the window and Daisy hates being the closest to the door. Jemma’s warmth at her back is usually a comfort. 

 

But it is the first time they’ve done this since her return, since Hive, since Daisy  _ changed _ . As she thinks about the last time they were here, staying up far later than they should to whisper under the sheets, giggling like little girls at a slumber party, it draws into stark relief what a different person Daisy has become, and she imagines that darkness seeping across the bleached sheets between them. And she doesn’t think it’s her imagination that Jemma’s equally as tense on the other edge of the bed. She must feel it too.

 

Daisy shouldn’t be this close to her. She shouldn’t be this close to any of them.    
  
It takes her a long time to fall asleep. 

 

…

 

Daisy wakes to something hitting her hard enough in the stomach to knock some of the breath out of her. For a moment she can only gasp, disoriented in the darkness, but then something smacks into her shoulder and instinct kicks in. She grabs her assailant by the wrist, twists, and only the high-pitched whimper makes her stop. 

 

“Jemma?” she croaks as a knee slams into her hip. She dodges a blow aimed at her face, feels herself being shoved toward the edge of the bed. “What the hell is going on?”

 

The lamp clicks on suddenly,  and Fitz is there, wrapping an arm around Jemma from behind. She lashes out at him instead, thrusting bony elbows into his gut, trying to scratch his arms and face, all the while making a noise in the back of her throat that might have been a scream if it weren’t caught in her sealed lips. 

 

“Simmons - Simmons! It’s me,” Fitz keeps repeating, dodging her fairly ineffective blows like an expert and managing to pin her arms to her sides, holding her tight against his chest. Her hair’s all over her face, and her breath comes sharp and quick as she struggles against his ironclad grip. 

 

Daisy has no idea what to do. 

 

Fitz holds on tight, too tight, rocking slightly, murmuring a low, soothing stream in her ear. 

 

“You’re alright, Jemma, you’re alright. It’s me. It’s over now. You’re alright. It’s over.”

 

It takes several minutes, but eventually she stops fighting, starts breathing a little easier, and sags in his arms. Some of the wildness fades from her eyes. 

 

“You good?” he asks quietly.

 

She nods, and when she pushes at him again he loosens his grip. She’s off the bed and in the bathroom in a second and they can hear her being sick. Seriously worried by this point, Daisy makes to follow her, but Fitz grabs her arm, shakes his head. 

 

“Something’s really wrong with  her,” Daisy objects. “We need to - take her to the emergency room or call someone or  _ something _ .” 

 

“She’ll be alright in a bit.” Fitz looks pained but he sounds certain. 

 

He gets up and crosses to the bathroom, knocks on the door. “Jemma? Simmons, we talked about this. You’ve gotta keep the door open.” When there’s no response, he knocks again. “I just have to be able to see you’re alright.” He tries the handle, but it’s locked. “Look, if you don’t open it yourself I’ve gotta get Daisy to kick it in.”

 

There’s a pause and then the lock clicks. Fitz pushes the door halfway open with a soft “thank you”, but then he returns to Daisy and the bed, carefully positioning himself, Daisy thinks, so he can see through the open door in the mirror. 

 

“Nightmare,” he says quietly, in response to her expression. 

 

“Yeah, I got that, but -” But this is not normal. Daisy is very familiar with normal nightmare behavior, and this? This is  _ definitely _ not normal. 

 

Except, given Fitz’s practiced reaction, apparently it is. 

 

Daisy turns so she is looking at Fitz and not the mirror, trying to give Jemma some semblance of privacy even though all her muscles are itching to move in her direction, be sitting next to her on the bathroom floor. “Does this happen a lot?” 

 

Fitz blows out a breath, runs a hand through his hair. “Not as much anymore. Used to be a lot more often, but she’s been doing better lately.” 

 

They hear the toilet flush and then the sink running, and undercover of the noise, Daisy asks, “is it… Maveth still?” 

 

Fitz shrugs. “She doesn’t like talking about it. Sometimes…” his fingers dance on his knee and he looks down. “Sometimes I think it’s Giyera. When she’s….” 

 

He trails off and his hand moves to a scratch on his neck where Jemma had caught him.  A sick feeling settles in Daisy. Because somehow between all the other disasters and tragedies and horrors she had forgotten about Giyera. 

 

How could she have  _ forgotten _ ? 

 

She draws a knee up to her chin, fiddling with the bottom of her jeans. They feel stiff and rough now and she wishes they were back on base instead of stuck in a grimy hotel room. “I thought she was… I mean, she seems so happy.” 

 

“She is, I think. Happy,” Fitz mumbles. He cranes his neck to check the mirror. “But the stuff that’s happened to her - it’s not just something that goes away. You know.” 

 

He gives her a look then. Because she does know. In some ways they all know. But in some ways Daisy doesn't know. No one knows. Because none of them have been stranded on an alien planet for more than six months. And maybe, she realizes with a jarring bump, maybe Jemma was afraid of getting her own darkness on  _ Daisy _ . 

 

The bathroom door creaks as it is pushed all the way open. Jemma emerges, pale and a little shaky, but her gaze is much clearer, is her own again, and that eases some of the worry in Daisy’s chest. 

 

“Hey,” Daisy says, the relief seeping into her voice. 

 

She gestures for Jemma to join them, but Jemma doesn’t come any closer, one hand on the wall to ground herself. 

 

“I’m so, so sorry, Daisy,” she says instead, expression crumbling a little.

 

“What - no, jeez, Jemma. It’s fine.” 

 

“Did I hurt you?” 

 

“Simmons, I’m a superhero,” Daisy says, trying to be flip, make her smile, but it just makes Jemma’s face pinch painfully. “No,” she assures her in all seriousness. “I’m fine. You can even poke and prod at me if you want.” 

 

Jemma’s eyes shift to Fitz. 

 

“One scratch,” he says, hands in the air. “Didn’t even break the skin.” 

 

Her head drops, hair falling forward in a curtain, but they still hear her murmured, “I’m sorry.” 

 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Fitz tells her firmly. 

 

_ I’m _ sorry _ , _ Daisy thinks.  Sorry that she left. Sorry that she didn’t realize how much Jemma was still hurting.  Sorry that  _ this  _ is how she had to find out. 

 

“C’m’ere,” she says, stretching a hand out to Jemma, needing to close that carefully-kept distance between them.

 

But Jemma backs up, shakes her head. 

 

“It’s late,” she says by way of cover. “We should - get some sleep. You two have the bed, I don’t mind the floor.” 

 

She’s already dropped into the nest of sheets Fitz had made for himself at the foot of the bed, back resolutely to them as she pulls a blanket almost over her head.  

 

Daisy glances at Fitz for some kind of push back, but he just slides to the floor beside Jemma. He leans down to kiss her temple before settling back with a careful inch of space between them, resolute in his refusal to let her sleep alone on the floor but  acquiescing to her closure of the conversation.  

 

There isn’t much left for Daisy to do, then, but crawl back to the head of the bed and click the lamp off. The darkness settles back around them, but there is no way Daisy is sleeping. The bed's too cold now that she has it to herself. A few hours ago she was gasping for the space, but now she’s only shivering in it. 

 

She restrains herself as long as she can, trying not to push where Jemma doesn’t want to be pushed. But eventually the solitude becomes unbearable. Fitz is dead to the world, sprawled out with his mouth open. She’s not sure about Jemma until she eases herself down on her other side and sees her eyes glinting in the dark. 

 

Daisy props her head on her elbow, turning so they are a mirror image with a pool of sheets between them. 

 

“I missed you,” she whispers in explanation. Her tone is a quip, as if she’s just talking about the last hour, but the words hold an ocean of something more. 

 

Cautiously, she reaches across the space between them and slips her hand into Jemma’s.  Jemma doesn’t pull away and that gives her the confidence to go on. 

 

“I think I get it now,” she says. “Why you and Fitz were so pissed at me. It’s kind of terrible when your friend’s struggling and won’t even let you see it.”

 

She waits, lets the quiet ride out a little, but Jemma doesn’t add anything.

 

“Look,” Daisy breathes finally, squeezing her fingers. “We can pretend this didn’t happen if you want to. But that’s not going to make it go away. Trust me, I spent seven months trying that method, and it’s a total flop. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere, got it? I’m in this with you.”

  
It’s too dark to make out Jemma’s expression, but her fingers tighten around Daisy’s and that’s all the answer she needs. 


	7. Things You Said When I was Scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bus kids miss May and Jemma finds some words of strength.

Daisy’s not sure what she expects to find when she slides into May’s deserted bunk. Maybe gears and circuit boards littering the floor or a can of oil with a bendy straw left on the nightstand. Something to prove an imposter had infiltrated this space. Or maybe she came in search of soft hand lotions and clothing half out of its drawers, signs of humanity the real May left behind. 

 

Proof of a difference Daisy should have noticed. 

 

Either way she’s disappointed. May’s bunk is exactly how Daisy remembers it the few times she’s been allowed (dared) to set foot in here. Bedding pulled tight enough to bounce a quarter off, personal effects neatly aligned on the dresser, leather jacket flung over the back of the desk chair. Even her tai chi mat peaks out from under the bed as if it’s been recently used. 

 

Daisy shoves the mat out of sight, the thought of robo-May touching it making her cringe. She’s not sure what to do next though. Not sure what she was trying to accomplish by breaking in. 

 

A thump from the closet just about puts her heart in her mouth and as she spins a tremor slams the door shut. There’s a yelp that she recognizes and Daisy’s fight stance drops tiredly as Jemma pushes her way free of the closet. 

 

“What the hell are you doing in here?” 

 

“May borrowed a book from me,” Jemma says but she sounds as if she’s just been caught sneaking off school grounds. 

 

“May borrowed  _ Advances in Biomedical Engineering: The Best of 2015 _ ?” Daisy asks, plucking the book dubiously from Jemma’s hands. 

 

Jemma’s chin drops guiltily. “I just wanted to make sure  _ it  _ didn’t mess anything up. For when we get May back.” 

 

Daisy’s breath comes out in a sigh and she feels her whole frame sagging. They’re always trying to get someone back. They’re always missing someone. 

 

She drops heavily onto the edge of the bed, regretting the way it wrinkles the sheets but pretty sure she can’t keep herself standing anymore. “How did you even get in here?”

 

Jemma folds herself down beside her. “Chemical aerosol that reveals trace biological material. I extrapolated May’s combination from the buttons that glowed. You?” 

 

Daisy raises a hand. “Hacker. I wrote half the security programs in this joint.” 

 

They fall silent there, staring around at the familiar walls and out of things to say. 

Then Jemma says, as if the ache is too big to stay silent, “I miss her.”

 

Daisy falls backward on the mattress as if that phrase is a bullet to her gut. “Me too.” 

 

The words are too little, but they’re all she has. 

 

Jemma lays back beside her and turns to curl into her, forehead pressed to Daisy’s shoulder, arm around her middle, seeking comfort, seeking to be comforting, Daisy’s not sure but probably both. 

 

There’s a soft click and both of them jump violently when the door pops open. Fitz almost drops his lock-picking gadget, eyes widening in surprise. 

 

“How did - “ but he gives up on the question before it’s even finished. “Should’ve known,” he mumbles instead, pocketing the device and slipping into the room.

 

“We’re having a slumber party in May’s room,” Jemma says, reaching for him and he joins them, sitting cross legged near Daisy’s head so he can look down at both of them. 

 

“I dunno if she wants us hanging out in her room,” he says a little guiltily, pinching the duvet between his fingers and twisting it a little.  

 

“She’d understand,” Daisy says and she’s certain, suddenly, that May would. For all her coolness, she’s always looked at them with warmth. And that, she thinks, is what she came in here searching for in the first place. 

 

“It’s not right,” Fitz says abruptly, giving the bedding a hard tug. “It doesn’t feel right, her being out there and us -”

 

Daisy knows what he means. She’s felt a lot of things in the last several months, a lot of different kinds of fear and grief. And there’s the usual anxiety, fear for the safety of someone she loves, missing her like a vital organ. But this… this fear low in her belly, not of anything in particular just an unsettled feeling, she hasn’t known that in a long time. It feels childish, but May’s presence has always made her feel safe and the base without her is empty and cold and she hates it. 

 

“Come here,” Jemma says, pushing herself up and crawling over Fitz to the head of the bed. 

 

She opens her arms up, gesturing for them to join her. Daisy curls up beside her, Fitz scooting up on Daisy’s other side, and Jemma wraps her arms around both of them. Her cheek drops onto the top of Daisy’s head.

 

“We’re going to find her,” Jemma says and it sounds like a vow or maybe just a fact. Daisy envies her certainty. “If you two can find me across the universe and drag me home, then we can find May in whatever reality Radcliffe’s stuck her in. We aren’t going to stop until we do, right?”

 

“Course not,” Fitz affirms quietly, but he sounds certain too. 

 

“I need her home,” Daisy says and it’s as good as a vow of her own even if it is also a plea. 

 

Jemma squeezes her tight. “We all do.” 

 

They’re as scared as her, Daisy thinks, which is why no one gets up from the bed. Fitz falls asleep first, head on Daisy’s arm, fingers knotted through Jemma’s. And Daisy can practically hear Jemma’s brain whirring away behind her, thinking of options and angles and places to start their search, or maybe just keeping up this new commander-and-chief persona she’s developed since Daisy disappeared, but eventually her breath goes steady and the loose hold she has on Daisy grows heavy with sleep too.

 

The lamp is still on to keep the monsters at bay, and they’re tangled on top of the covers but no one‘s cold. They’re scared too, Daisy thinks, because there’s something about not having May at their backs, not having her watching even from a distance, makes them feel like kids on a plane all over again. 

  
But they have come a long way since then. May has brought them all a long way. And they can do this. They can bring her back. If they can do anything, they can do this. 


	8. Things You Said in a Hospital Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy's heroics land her in a hospital bed, and not for the first time.

“That was - that was  _ beyond stupid _ , Daisy.” 

 

Jemma doesn’t exactly mean to lead with that. When she saw Daisy’s eyes cracked open -  _ finally  _ \- she’d opened her mouth to say “thank god” or “how do you feel?” but this is what bursts out instead. 

 

Daisy gingerly moves the fingers of her left hand, feeling the restrictions of the thick cast. Her body still feels like it’s been encased in cement. “Funny,” she rasps. “I thought I’d at least get a thumbs-up for saving a few dozen people.” She coughs and winces. “Okay, note to self, talking hurts.” 

 

Jemma immediately moves to adjust her iv drip. “You know what I mean,” she says more softly. “You were amazing, obviously, but -” 

 

The curtains around her bed are tugged open with a rasp.

 

“Are you awake? Is she awake?” Fitz, hands full of coffee and flowers, looks eagerly from Daisy’s battered face to Jemma’s frown.

 

“Yes, she’s awake,” Jemma confirms, adding a “thank goodness” under her breath. 

 

Fitz carefully slides the tray of coffee onto the bedside table and lays the flowers across her knees, then drops into a chair as if the relief has made him weak at the knees. 

 

“Oh my god,” he says wearilly. “Daisy, we thought - we thought -” He swallows and blinks, looks down at her. “Just, I’m really glad you’re awake, alright?”

 

“Flowers,” Daisy manages, trying to get a look at the colorful bouquet that’s now rolled down to her shins. 

 

“Oh, yeah.” Fitz reaches for them to show her. A bunch of daisies, pink, yellow, and white. “Thought you’d like something nice to look at when you came to.”

 

“I’ll get something to put them in,” Jemma says, and slips out of the small, curtained room with a swish of her pony tail. 

 

Fitz frowns briefly after her, but his attention is quickly returned to Daisy.

 

“D’you want some water? More light? Less light?” His hands hover in the air, not sure where to go first.

 

“Mm, water,” she says. “I think she’s pissed at me,” she adds as Fitz fills a dixie cup with water from a small sink in the corner. 

“Nah, she’s not,” he says, returning to her side and trying to find the best way to help her drink. “It’s just… it was close, this one. You know? And she’s the one that’s gotta glue you back together.”

 

She does know, of course. She seems to be cutting them close a lot lately. She’s not sure if it’s burgeoning confidence or a dangerous lack of self-preservation instinct. She’s a little too drugged up right now to care. 

 

Fitz drags his chair a little closer to her bed and winds his fingers through her good hand, applying a comforting sort of pressure that’s probably meant to ground both him and her.

 

They wait a while for Jemma to come back with a vase. Long enough that Daisy has started drifting again. It’s as if from a great distance that she hears the curtains again and then Jemma’s voice. 

 

“This was all I could find.” She sounds strange, her voice a little strangled.

 

Fitz’s hand slips out of Daisy’s and the chair scrapes back. “That’ll do fine,” he murmurs. There’s a minute, and then he says quietly, “She thinks you’re pissed.”

 

“I am a little bit,” Jemma says back. 

 

With a concerted effort, Daisy manages to crack an eye. Fitz’s arms are around her waist and her cheek is pressed against his sweater. The daisies are on a cart, in a graduated cylinder with some water. 

 

“It’s our job,” Fitz says to Jemma. “She’s just doing her job.” 

 

“Well she can’t do it very well if she gets herself blown up.”

 

Daisy closes her eyes again. Her body is begging to drop off into the cavern of sleep, and so she does, not sure if she hopes they’ll still be there when she wakes up or not.

 

They are of course. Both of them. And to her surprise, Coulson too. All passed out in the less-than-comfortable hospital-grade chairs gathered round her makeshift room. Coulson’s hand rests on her shin. 

 

Daisy hates to wake them, but just trying to shift into a more comfortable (or at least less painful) position makes her stifle a groan in her teeth. Jemma, who is closest to her, is awake in an instant. 

 

“ ‘m okay,” Daisy whispers. Her voice is slightly less rough than it had been before, maybe. 

 

Jemma gets her more water and checks the IV drip again. The half-light filtering through the aqua curtains makes it look like they’re underwater, and Daisy feels a little like she’s at the bottom of the ocean, but she pushes toward the surface.

 

“You should eat something if you’re up to it. I can make you whatever you want.” 

 

“Jello,” Daisy decides immediately. “Don’t these things usually come with jello?” 

 

She flicks a finger toward the IV bag. 

 

“Alright, jello it is,” Jemma agrees with a soft, half-smile. “I may have to run out, though. I’ll be quick.”

 

“Wait, wait.” Daisy waits until Jemma’s lowered herself back into her chair, mulling her words just a little. It’s like she’s been thinking about this all the time she’s been asleep and the sentence is already almost fully-formed. “I don’t mean to. When I do stupid stuff like this. I don’t mean to end up here making you glue me back together.” 

 

The lines of Jemma’s face go soft. “I know. I’m sorry I was -” She presses her fingers together. “I just don’t know what I would do… if one of these days I can’t put you back together. That’s all.”

 

“I’ll try not to make you find out,” Daisy promises. 

 

“I suppose that’s the most I can ask for.” Jemma smiles, leans forward and kisses Daisy’s forehead. “Try not to move too much. I’ll be back with jello for the heroes soon.”


	9. Things You Said When We Were on Top of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S1, Skye and Fitzsimmons take the opportunity to play hooky and spend the evening at an amusement park and Fitz and Skye talk about the future.

It’s a stupid kid thing. Fitzsimmons never got to do stupid kid things, and Skye’s stupid kid things were always shadowed by big, real-world things like maybe being homeless, and so they decide it’s something they have to do.

 

Skye would have snuck out of the Bus right then and there, when they first came up with the idea in Fitz’s bunk at nine PM, but Simmons insisted on at least _some_ preparation, so they wait until the next afternoon. Sneaking off the Bus isn’t as fun in broad daylight, but Skye can see by the exhilaration-bordering-on-panic in her un-corrupted cohorts’ faces that this is as much fun as they could handle. Next time they’ll try the night run.

 

As soon as they’re free of the Bus, they make a beeline for the amusement park.

 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Simmons says for the tenth time, practically vibrating as they wait in line for tickets.

 

“Believe it, babe,” Skye smirks. They reach the ticket booth and Skye flashes a credit card that she may or may not have swiped from Ward’s wallet. She doesn’t figure he’ll mind _too_ much.

 

And then they’re through the turnstiles and the park sprawls before them, a landscape of overbright colors and cranked music and flashing lights.

 

“Whoa,” Fitz says, head craned back bo look at the soaring roller coasters. Skye can just about see him taking them apart in his mind, physics equations floating in the margins.

 

“Alright,” Skye says, clapping her hands together. “Where to first?”

 

Simmons immediately pulls out a list, but Skye snags it from her fingers.

 

“It’s the most efficient way to -”

 

“We’re at _Wild_ World, Simmons, not efficiency world. There’s only one wrong way to do this, and it’s with a plan.”

 

Simmons looks put out, but only until Fitz points out the merry-go-round twenty yards to their right.

 

“Whimsy,” he says, leading the way. “Isn’t that our New Year’s Resolution?”

 

They ride the merry-go-round twice, then the tilt-a-whirl, which makes Fitz queezey. Skye tries her hand at half a dozen overpriced carnival games on Ward’s dime while he recovers and comes back with a stuffed gorilla to cheer him up.

 

“Spy training paid off,” she grins as she loops the monkey’s arms around Fitz’s neck and presses the velcro together. “Made it almost to the top of the rope bridge for this little guy.”

 

“His name’s Marvin,” Fitz tells her, petting Marvin’s fluffy gray head affectionately.

 

They ride the roller coaster with the two big loops and Simmons is still screaming when the ride eases to a stop. They grab corn dogs and nachos and snow cones for dinner and watch the sun start to set and the crescent moon rise over the amusement park skyline, arguing the finer points of fair food and wondering if May and Coulson have realized they’re playing hooky yet.

 

“Up next is bumper cars,” Skye declares, dumping her empty nacho container in the trash and brushing her hands on her jeans. “Any bets on how many times I can ram you two?”

 

“Won’t the park be closing soon?” Jemma says with a crease between her eyes. “It’s nearly dark.”

 

“Oh no,” Skye tells her and her eyes sparkle eagerly. “Night park is the best kind of park.”

 

She sweeps her hand dramatically toward all the softly glowing rides and fairy lights strung up along the pathways, the lines less crowded with families and little kids, the live music wafting from a stage somewhere nearby. She winds an arm around Fitz and Simmons’s shoulders and stands on the toes of her converse between them.

 

“The magic has only just begun.”

 

In the dark, the rides become a blur of warm lights and warm air whipping past their faces and it seems like just the three of them breathing in this whirlwind. Their arms loop together as they meander the paths and everything is slow. They take turns pinching off clouds of cotton candy from Skye’s giant bag and ride the swings, arms stretched out so it’s like flying on moonlight and always trying to get close enough to each other to brush fingers.

 

They ride the merry-go-round once more now that the children have cleared off and Jemma can have her palomino and run her fingers over the porcelain curls of its mane. Fitz wants to try his hand at the hammer game so they all make hilarious attempts at ringing the bell and win inflatable baseball bats for their efforts which will later be used for light saber fights in the Bus’s lounge area, no matter what May says about it being too small a plane for light saber fights.

 

And when the evening is finally starting to cool off and they are starting to feel the effects of the sun and the crowds and the long day, they cram themselves and all their accumulated goodies into one of the tented compartments made to look like a boat on the Ferris wheel.

 

Jemma’s wearing Fitz’s sweatshirt and Fitz is wearing Skye’s jean jacket and they stuff enough tickets into the machine operator's hand for perhaps half a dozen rounds.

 

“I’m glad you made us do this,” Fitz says as their boat rises slowly out of the twinkling sea of lights and up toward the inky sky.

 

“Hey, I didn’t make anyone do anything, and I’ll testify to that in a court of law,” Skye says, raising her hands in defense. Well, the one hand that is not trapped by Simmons, who’s drooped against Skye’s shoulder and nodded off there.

 

“Well, you were our fearless leader -”

 

“ _You’re_ the one who said we should skip out.”

 

“I’m just trying to thank you, alright?”

 

“Right,” Skye says, cheeks flushing a little in the cool wind that rocks their boat just a little as it nears the top.

 

“We’d never have done this without you, and that’d be a shame.” He pulls a smile at her sideways and she smiles back.

 

It’s a nice feeling to be young and carefree and surrounded by stars. Skye settles back into the warmth on either side of her. She stretches her free hand out in front of Fitz as they start to come down with an unimpeded view of the glittering park.

 

“ _I can show you the world,_ ” she starts, singing softly so as not to disturb Jemma. _“Shining, shimmering, spleeeee-eended. Tell me, Princess, when did you last let your heart decide?”_

 

On the word ‘princess’ she brings her fingers up to brush Fitz’s cheek, smirking when he bats her hand away, and her solo dissolves in muffled chortles. Fitz shakes his head and mutters to Marvin the gorilla. Skye anchors an arm around Jemma’s waist and drops her head on Fitz’s shoulder.

 

“D’you think we’ll ever meet an Avenger?”

 

“Well, since they’re all supposed to think Coulson’s dead, I don’t reckon any time soon.”

 

“You ever thought about building yourself a super suit?”

 

Fitz snorts.

 

“What? You’re probably a better engineer than Tony Stark. You could be a superhero if you wanted to.”

 

“If one of us was gonna be a superhero, it would have to be you. Me and Jem get nervous sneaking off to the carnival.”

 

“You guys could do it,” Skye decides, letting her head fall back to look at the stars. “If anyone’s going to get bitten by something radioactive, its Simmons. And remember last week when you nailed that guy with the Icer? Right between the eyes. Practice that a few thousand more times and you’ll be giving Stark for his money. All the billions of it. And if I’m going to be a superhero, I don’t want to do it alone.”

 

“Well I don’t think any of us have to worry about becoming superheroes anytime soon,” Fitz says.

 

“Maybe not,” Skye says after a couple minutes of silence watching the inner spokes of the wheel as their little boat rises once more. “But we’re gonna do some big stuff. I can feel it. We’re probably gonna save the world.”

 

“My inventions probably already have.”

  
“Show off,” Skye teases. “My point is sneaking off to a theme park is small potatoes compared to what we’re gonna do next. Today _Wild World,_ tomorrow the actual world.”

 

Fitz shakes his head, but he’s got half a smirk on his face too. “New Avengers.”

 

“New Avengers!” Skye exclaims.

 

On her other side, Jemma makes a noise and stirs and they both go still for a second until she settles again.

 

“New Avengers,” Fitz whispers and they laugh as their boat sways gently to it’s final apex in the glittering night.


	10. Things You Said That Made Me Feel Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the framework (completely ignoring the space bullshit). Warnings for brief mention of nonconcensual intimacy (W*rd and Daisy in the framework) and mention of self-harm (Jemma post-framework). Angst with a hopeful ending.

They’ve all been here before, in fragments that look like they might never all fit back together. They’ve just never all been here at the exact same time, their pieces mixed up with each other’s, the shrapnel of one person’s fallout cutting a wound in someone else. It’s like falling in a pile of broken glass and each attempt to move invites more injury, each attempt to help each other just drives the pieces in deeper. 

 

Daisy feels queasy sometimes when she sees Fitz, doing something perfectly innocuous like pouring a cup of coffee, and she hates this because it’s not his fault and she’s worried -she’s so worried about him - but she just can’t get close enough to talk. She wakes in cold sweats from The Doctor’s torture chamber or from Ward’s embrace, feeling his lips on her neck, and she feels like retching, thinks of Trip and his smile and his arms around her and old wounds start to weep again. 

 

But who is there to turn to? Mack lost a daughter all over again, May’s whole world was rewritten in dark ink. Jemma’s rapidly losing grip on sanity and reality and Fitz.... Fitz. 

 

Mack has Elena in the aftermath. May does what she’s best at and insists mostly on treating her own wounds. Coulson does whatever he can for Fitz, and Daisy and Jemma lean more and more on each other, and only each other. 

 

Jemma jumps at any sudden movements. She doesn’t believe anyone is real, even herself. Daisy has to wrestle sharp objects out of her hands and quake her and anyone who approaches them as gently as possible to prove they are not robots about to turn on her, that she is not a robot about to turn on them. She wakes choking on dirt and thinking Daisy is a corpse.

 

“You’re okay,” Daisy promises, pinning her arms to her sides and holding her. “It’s over, it’s over.” 

 

And every day they wait for those words to be true. 

 

“We need to talk to him,” Jemma says one evening when some of the wounds have perhaps started to heal. 

 

She and Daisy have run away and come back again, drunk in the cold mountain air and tried to scrub the pixels from behind their eyes, relearned how to breathe a little on their own. Fitz has talked every other day with a therapist, gone to stay with his mother, had a road trip with Hunter. Started to remember who he is. 

 

But there is something vital missing, something they need to repair if they’re ever going to really get back on their feet. 

 

Daisy gives her a sideways look. “Are you sure you’re ready?” 

 

She’s had to stop Jemma sinking a dagger into Mack’s chest. The last thing Fitz needs is to witness something like that. But Jemma takes a stealing breath, rubs a thumb over the new marks on her arm. Nods. 

 

“What about you?” 

 

A thousand things flash in Daisy’s mind, but they’re mostly her friend, her friend who gave her his Icer and told her to be careful, her friend who held onto her when she was afraid of even herself and convinced her it was okay, her friend who probably needs that now. And she swallows and nods too. 

 

“But what about him? Do you think he’s ready to see us?” 

 

…

 

The new base doesn’t really help, Fitz thinks. He can understand why they didn’t go back. Besides the Playground being nearly destroyed, for Daisy, Jemma, and Elena it’s also a nightmare of memories. And probably fairly compromised by now. 

 

But the new base, with all it’s windows and light and sleek, modern design, makes him question whether he really made it out of that digital hellscape. Coulson has done his best to add some personal warmth. There’s a shelf of ridiculous mugs in the kitchen, some handmade pot holders he must have found at a flea market, yankee candles everywhere. Fitz lets his eyes catch on these pops of color as he sips his tea at the long granite countertop. 

 

There are two doorways, one feeding into a spacious dining room and one off the hallway. He’s angled more toward the hallway door so the scuffling footsteps and soft “oh,” from the other direction make him whip around. 

 

It’s Daisy, bed head and star wars pajamas and all. Fitz moves quickly to leave and yield the kitchen since Daisy’s hardly managed to stay in the same room with him since… Everything. But she stops him. 

 

“You can stay,” she says, rounding the island and standing on her toes right next to him to reach a mug. “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.” 

 

“Um, yeah - I mean no. I mean I don’t mind.” He shuffles sideways a little to give her better access to the mugs. “Kettle’s still warm I think.” 

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Daisy asks, scooping coffee into the machine. It always puts her to sleep better than chamomile. 

 

Fitz stairs into his mug and mumbles something. He doesn’t think Daisy wants to hear about the nightmares he has. She’s lived them. 

 

They wait for Daisy’s coffee to finish in a silence that isn’t exactly comfortable, but isn’t tense either, and then Daisy slides along the countertop so that she’s facing him, leaning against the island opposite. 

 

“Are you okay?” she asks. She’s wanted to ask for a long time.

 

“Yeah,” Fitz says automatically, taken aback by the question and even more by the concern in her eyes. “I’m - how are you?”

 

“I’m getting better,” she says, and it’s the truth. “Are you really okay?”

 

They both know he probably isn't. Not yet. 

 

“This place,” Fitz says, gesturing to the shiney kitchen all around them. “Doesn’t feel real.”

 

Daisy runs her fingers along the stainless steel handle of a drawer, which turns out actually to be a dishwasher when she tugs it open. “I know what you mean.” 

 

“I have an idea.” 

 

They both startle and look around. Jemma is standing in the doorway, still good at moving without a sound. Fitz tenses when he sees her, but she joins them without a flicker of hesitation. After a bit of rummaging in another drawer, she holds something small and silver up. 

 

“Simmons…” Daisy says warilly. 

 

“What… are you gonna do with that?” Fitz asks in the same uneasy tone.

 

It’s a lighter, and Jemma flicks it once, bringing a small flame into a flickering existence. 

 

“Relax, I’m not going to burn the place down,” she says. Right before she touches the flame to one of the clean, white cabinet doors. 

 

Both Fitz and Daisy yelp and a moment later the lighter has been quaked out of Jemma’s hand and Daisy has the flame suffocated. 

 

“What the hell?” she demands, but Jemma is admiring a small scorch mark left like a fingerprint on the cabinet door.

 

“A scar,” she explains. She takes Fitz’s hand and presses his index finger against the warped wood. It’s the first time she’s touched him since Everything. “When you see it, it’ll remind you this is real.”

 

His eyes trace down her arm to a set of angry, pink ridges. 

 

“Sometimes I think I’m not real,” she says, following his eyes. She takes her hand back and rubs a thumb over the scars. “So I tried to dig to the bone to prove it one way or the other. They help me remember now.”

 

The three of them stand, barefoot, in the quiet kitchen. The coffee pot gives one final gurgle and then flicks off. 

 

“I miss you,” Jemma says, almost shy. She moves as if to twine her fingers through his, but then stops herself. 

 

“Me too,” Daisy admits. 

 

Fitz scratches the back of his neck with one hand, eyes darting between them and the floor. This better than anything else grounds him in reality, hearing them say this. 

 

“I miss you guys, too.” 

 

Jemma reaches again and this time succeeds in lacing their fingers together. She does the same with Daisy on her other side. 

 

“So let's not miss each other anymore.” 


End file.
